The Bridge of Silver Wings

by John Wiltshire

  Nikolas seemed puzzled. “Through the door?”

  “It was locked.”

  “Well, obviously I have a key. Come here.”

  “No, you can’t just come in and fuck me without even…anything!”

  “Since when?”

  Nikolas had a point, but Ben wasn’t going to give in this time. He climbed out of the stall and wrapped a towel around his waist, running his fingers through his hair to slick it off his forehead. “Why did the manager know you? What were you talking about?” It was incredibly frustrating being with Nikolas when you understood what he was saying; when he was free to say whatever he liked, in a language you didn’t understand, it was downright dangerous.

  “This is where Gregory and I stayed when we came here. People tend to remember Gregory.” Yeah, and they don’t remember you, Ben thought.

  “You came here last year, with Gregory?”

  Nikolas looked pained, partially since there was only one bath-sized towel, and Ben was wearing it. He pulled his shorts and suit trousers back on and sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought you understood this. He wanted to visit the old place, so we did.”

  “He wanted to visit a Siberian prison camp where he’d executed people.”

  “No, he wanted to visit the Siberian prison camp where he met me.” Nik smiled with such a private, annoying smile Ben saw himself slap the blond hair—literally pictured doing this unthinkable thing. Nikolas, seeing his expression, amended, “I was only here to do as he wished. It meant nothing to me. But that’s why the manager recognises me. You must remember, although he was sick, Gregory was still FSB—state security. He tended to act in FSB as if he were still KGB.”

  “Why do we have separate bedrooms?”

  Nikolas gave him a frank appraisal. “This isn’t the BBC, Ben.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? It’s not the Philippines; it’s not Denmark. I thought we were over the ‘let’s-pretend-I’m-your-chauffeur’ phase.”

  Nikolas’s interest was clearly piqued. “You used to pretend you were my chauffeur? How intriguing. I wish you’d told me. We should play that sometime. Maybe you could polish my—” He didn’t get to finish that suggestion. Ben hit him. It was more playful than serious, so Nikolas only caught his fist and pulled him onto the bed with him. He put his hand to Ben’s hair and mussed it, then asserted, without catching Ben’s eye, “I did it for you, not for me. Here, I can do as I please and act as I choose. If I took a dozen boys into my room and fucked them until they were legal, no one would dare say anything to me. The fear is still here. But this is Russia, Ben. The things you and I enjoy aren’t tolerated here. You’d be talked about, and because they’d soon realise you didn’t understand what they were saying, they’d say it to your face.” He met Ben’s gaze and grinned. “And then I’d have to kill them, and you told me you wanted me to stop killing people, no?”

  Ben just stared at him then shook his head. “I’m living with a complete psychopath. Do you actually believe anything you’ve just said, or are you just amusing yourself at my expense?”

  “Ah, perhaps a little of both. Don’t be grumpy, Ben. I’m glad you’re here. See? I’m being very honest and very boyfriend like, am I not?”

  “I think you should quit while you still have the smallest glimmer of a chance at getting laid tonight. Unless your two-bedroom policy to protect my honour extends literally to…”

  Nikolas kissed him, pushing him back onto the bed and removing the towel. “What do you think?” He released himself and finished the job he’d started in the shower. Afterward, lying on Ben, still joined but not clearly intending to do much about it just yet, playing with Ben’s hair, now grown back long as Ben knew Nik liked, he lamented, “I don’t think you’re entirely understanding how this boyfriend thing works, Ben. Denying me in the shower, it’s very hurtful.”

  “You do realise I can actually hear the air quotes when you say boyfriend.”

  “Sometimes, I think you only want me for sex. You don’t—”

  “Shut up. Now. If you are my boyfriend, how about taking me out to get something to eat, or would that be too gay for you? And notice I didn’t use air quotes.”

  “No, I’m not hungry. We’ll stay in.” He didn’t stay in Ben long after saying that. Rolling away, Ben grabbed his towel and stood.

  “I’m going out. You can stay in if you want.”

  Nikolas sighed and lay back, watching Ben as he dressed. Finally, just as Ben was moving past the bed to leave, Nikolas snagged his jacket. “I can’t go out here, Ben.”

  Ben frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Nikolas stood up and retrieved his shirt and tie from the floor. He pursed his lips, running the tie thoughtfully through his fingers, then admitted, “As I’ve just explained, this is Russia. It’s…” He closed his eyes as if listening to something only he could hear. “It’s a place entirely built upon…” He opened his eyes. “What can you smell in here?”

  Ben frowned. “Odd question. Seriously? It’s musty?” Suddenly he got it. “Cigarette smoke. Wow, it stinks of stale cigarette smoke.”

  Nikolas nodded. “If we go out, every single person will be smoking, and vodka will flow like water, and I’ll be truly at home. My language, my people, my…”

  “Addictions.”

  “Yes. So, I’m sorry. I don’t want to go out.”

  Nikolas being vulnerable was a rare thing. It wasn’t like him to admit that anything defeated him, especially not his addictions, which he preferred to pretend were figments of Ben’s imagination. Ben slid his arms around the sulking figure. “Let’s just go out for a walk. Sightseeing. Like normal people?”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever been sightseeing. What does it involve? But in that case you must change.” He twitched Ben’s suit jacket. “This wouldn’t do for walking around this town. Put on something less affluent looking. And carry your knife.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dressed in combat pants, T-shirts and jackets, they blended in more than they had in their tailored suits, and Ben soon realised why Nikolas had told him to dress down. The place wasn’t full of the kind of poverty he’d seen in places like Afghanistan, or even the Philippines, but neither was it full, as those places were, of people in close-knit family groups making the best of what they had. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be groups of young men, usually posing around one battered, old scooter, all drinking and smoking and watching passers-by with hooded eyes.

  Nikolas seemed to enjoy it. He stared at the teenagers until, one by one, each of them dropped their gaze or turned away. Then he spoke to them, measured words that Ben didn’t understand, but he saw the same obsequiousness he’d seen on the hotel manager’s face. They were eager to please, nodding, even following along with them a little way until Nikolas dismissed them with a wave. Nikolas stood out here just as much as he did everywhere, and Ben wondered what Nikolas’s Russian sounded like to these Siberian teenagers. He’d been to the finest school in Russia and lived and mixed with the elite. Perhaps they could hear that in his voice. Perhaps they could smell his money. Perhaps they sensed his power. Ben was so used to Nikolas these days he couldn’t stand aside and see him as others might. Perhaps—and this was a disturbing thought that Ben didn’t want to pursue—perhaps Nikolas had the same effect on other people as he’d had on him their first meeting, instant, overwhelming desire.

  Ben knew Nikolas was no angel. He was so far from being angelic it was a joke. Yet what was the alternative? What other creature could have such allure and such power? Ben shuddered. He noted anxiously they were entering a church but was extremely relieved to discover Nikolas could step over the threshold without combusting.

  They wandered around the dark, incense-laden, awe-inspiring building for a while. At one point, Nikolas stopped by a rack of lit candles, reading the messages. He heard a sound from Ben and turned, and Ben took his photo, the high, Nordic cheekbones illuminated by the soft candlelight. It was the first photograph he’d
ever taken of Nikolas. Of his face, at least.

  Nikolas frowned then pursed his lips. “Why did you do that?” He apparently realised he was still speaking Russian and repeated the question in English.

  Ben dropped the phone into his pocket and shrugged. “We’re sightseeing. It’s what you do.”

  “You take pictures of the person you’re seeing the sights with, not the sights themselves?”

  “Yes. I don’t have any photos of you.”

  Nikolas began to wander back toward the door. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know! What do normal people do with photos of their boyfriends?” Ben had to ask something then, because, once he’d thought it, it began to bother him. “Why don’t you ever want a photo of me?”

  Nikolas appeared surprised. “I have your face permanently in my mind whether you’re present or not. Why would I require a photograph to take the place of that?”

  Ben stared at him. Occasionally, Nikolas did or said something that made up for everything Ben had to put up with the rest of the time. “I suppose if I kissed you now, here in public, you wouldn’t like it?”

  Nikolas made a low, appreciative noise. He glanced around. They were standing in the lobby of the church. It was gloomy. There was no one around. He seized Ben’s lapels. “Perhaps I’ll profane this holy place with more than a kiss.” Ben’s eyes widened. He pushed Nikolas off, his earlier thoughts about this inhuman creature once again running through his mind.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Nikolas nodded sadly. “See? You don’t really want a boyfriend. Come, we’ll…” He grabbed Ben’s fist before serious damage could be done to his face. He stole a quick kiss and chuckled. “I’m well distracted, Ben. Thank you.” As they returned to the hotel, not hand in hand but walking close enough to have their skin touching, Ben wondered whether there was anyone in the world with a normal partner who received half the pleasure he did from the intensely annoying ways Nikolas reinforced their bond.

  Ben was the devil’s acolyte, but he wasn’t complaining one little bit.

  § § §

  Their lovemaking was lazy and self-indulgent that night. Nikolas hadn’t even allowed Ben to return to his own room, but had led him directly to his. They’d stripped and played and teased and amused themselves to while away the hours. Their plane didn’t leave until mid-morning, so there was no need to rise early. Nikolas seemed determined to stay away from temptation, so Ben went hungry. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make. In the early hours of the morning, propped on one elbow, watching his demon sleep, Ben wondered if there was any sacrifice he wouldn’t make to the Nikolas Mikkelsen altar. It was a frightening thought. Had a similar obsession driven Nikolas here to this godforsaken place in Siberia? Had his relationship with Gregory been like this? Was Nikolas now laying sacrifices upon the altar of the man who’d literally been his life? Ben laid his head onto Nikolas’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, thinking. Nikolas didn’t, yet, control his thoughts. Maybe that was still to come. He controlled everything else.

  § § §

  Their trip the next day was planned so they could fly up to the camp and back in one day, but Nikolas admitted things rarely went to plan in Russia and cautioned Ben to pack an overnight bag, just in case. They dressed in the clothes they’d worn the previous evening, as they were the most comfortable for travelling, and left all their other things in their rooms. Travelling light, they headed for the airport. Airport was a slightly grand description for the shed that awaited them. Nikolas had assured Ben, as he’d missed dinner and breakfast, he’d feed him when they arrived. There was a vending machine. Ben was really impressed. He bought a chocolate bar and a bag of odd-looking nuts and sat glaring at Nikolas while they waited for boarding.

  Nikolas was eyeing the other passengers. Most of them appeared to be Americans. Ben had never met an American he didn’t like. Despite the popular view of their military within the British Army, he, in Special Forces, had only mixed with their elite—Delta Force and Seals—and he’d found them exceptional soldiers. Nikolas, he suddenly realised, in his current pseudo Soviet persona, might not find these particular Americans’ loud self-assurance quite so palatable. And they were, even he had to admit, particularly bad representatives of that nation.

  Three of their fellow passengers were hunters. Ben hadn’t had to guess this; it was fairly obvious from their head-to-foot camouflage, state-of-the-art weaponry, and camping equipment bagged and tagged at their feet. They also talked in loud voices about the experience they were anticipating, basically killing anything they could find, but particularly the wild Ibex and Siberian bear. One appeared to be their leader, a flashy, handsome man, who joked with his associates with the air of one used to being listened to. He was tall and well built and had muscles Ben knew had been developed in a gym on expensive training equipment—he even had a bottle of water in his hand, which he constantly sipped from. He’d been the first of the group to cast a quick assessment over Nikolas and Ben the minute they’d appeared, like a male lion checking out potential rivals. He’d seemed annoyed.

  One of the other men was younger, thin, but without the leanness that came from being fit. He had a pleasant face, but other than that, he made no impression on Ben at all. The third hunter was much older and probably carried about a hundred pounds more than he ought and all of this on his stomach, which put a considerable strain on his camouflage shirt. He had a sly, hard look about him. He was the only one of the three smoking. He was always the first to laugh at their leader’s jokes.

  There was also another group of three men. These appeared to be a father and two grown sons, for the likeness between them all was uncanny. The older man was wearing a black suit and had a plain but prominent cross pinned on his lapel. He was leaning over a Bible, reading, silently mouthing the words as he read. He didn’t match Ben’s idea of a preacher though, more like a farmer who’d seen hard times. He was lean and mean with strangely weathered skin. Years in the sun could do that to a man. Maybe years of praying? Ben wasn’t sure. He didn’t need to pray for much these days; he had all he wanted sitting next to him. Nik was currently staring at the smoking American and tapping his foot furiously.

  The sons were wearing very sober clothes as well, also with pinned-on crosses. They had open Bibles, too. The oldest was about Ben’s age, a nondescript man who had all his father’s features without the weathering. He seemed more bored than sour. He wasn’t, Ben noted, reading his Bible with quite such eager concentration as his father. The youngest of the three resembled them both but seemed to have had the best share out of the looks of them all. Perhaps he’d just been born to an easier life than his older brother. He wasn’t reading his Bible, he was staring at Nikolas. He appeared to have found a far more interesting study than the word of God. Ben had just discovered an American he didn’t like. He was tempted to lay a hand on Nikolas’s thigh, or higher, just to see what the boy would do, but he could almost hear his beloved demon grinding his teeth at the smoking man, so didn’t want to put him under any more stress.

  The only other passengers were an older woman and a girl Ben reckoned to be about ten or eleven, although he admitted to himself he was hardly the best judge of little girls’ ages. She had the most intense red hair he’d ever seen on anyone. It was like a flame in the shabby airport lounge. She possibly found it embarrassing, for she had most of it pulled under a knitted hat. Even so, errant strands had come loose and tumbled out like licks of fire. She sat with the old woman but seemed very separate from her. The woman was bundled. It was the only way Ben could think to describe it. She was round and wizened and very content, knitting and sucking endlessly on boiled sweets from a bag she dipped into every few minutes.

  The girl was much taller than her companion already and didn’t have the features of one who had grown up with the same peasant restrictions of the older woman. She was odd. Ben couldn’t stop watching the way she clasped the knapsack on h
er lap, the way she hunched, staring around with apparent wild-eyed incomprehension about where she was and what she was doing. He knew how she felt. He often thought the same about his life. When she caught his eye, he smiled at her. She gazed at him for the longest moment and then gave him a quirk of her lips, and, oddly, he felt as if he’d made a friend.

  Ben turned to Nikolas and offered him the remains of his chocolate bar. Nikolas, surprisingly, took it and ate it. Ben chuckled. Nicotine-withdrawal-induced chocolate addiction: that was all they needed. Looking pointedly and witheringly at Ben—Nikolas never liked being laughed at—he then began a conversation with the grandmother, clearly and deliberately excluding anyone who didn’t speak Russian, particularly Ben who’d laughed at him. After a while, he leant back in his seat, staring at the red-haired girl thoughtfully.

  “You have something in common with her, Ben,” he murmured in Danish.

  Ben didn’t think he had anything in common with a ten-year-old girl. He glanced at Nikolas for clarification.

  “She too is mute after losing her family. Her babushka—grandmother—travelled all the way to America to fetch her, as she’s the only family the girl has left. Babushka speaks only Russian and the girl doesn’t speak at all or understand Russian.”